


The Simple Result of the Sun

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2019-10-02 07:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: For Anders, the impossible is only an obstacle to be overcome to be with Karl again; for Fenris and Sebastian, cursed to become animals at sunrise and sunset, the impossible is their only salvation. Evading capture; breaking a curse; toppling those responsible: what could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My era of self-indulgence continues into its second phase with the rarepair Ladyhawke AU that I definitely need and want, even if the fandom at large isn't so sure.

There was a sour smell in the air which, Anders thought, was only natural considering where he was. He pulled the thin fabric of his shirt up over his nose in a futile attempt to block out the smell. These catacombs were old, mostly abandoned; those that weren’t were inhabited by those considered too low for even Darktown and the thought of running in to them, with no weapons, made Anders’s stomach turn.

He kept his head low as he made his way through the tunnels. Darktown was his aim, being an old haunt, somewhere he had been well regarded and even, on occasion, necessary. No one there, he knew, had any love for his pursuers; it would be the one place he’d be able to get a few hours respite and some scant supplies before he moved on.

Kirkwall was a cesspool, a blight on the landscape that it sat in, but Anders had always managed to find jewels.

The old, worn stone floor started to slope upward and Anders breathed a sigh of relief. He knew this place now. The scratchings on the wall were familiar, like constellations to a sailor. They pointed to home and safety and…

“Karl?” he whispered into the dark as he lifted the trapdoor above his head. He coughed and lifted his voice, “Karl?”

“Fuck, Anders,” came the answering whisper, “What are you doing here? How did you get out?”

Karl appeared like a ghost through the dark, his hair grey all over now, dressed in a rough tunic and trousers. Anders reached a hand out to him.

“I fell down a hole,” he said, “And followed my heart.”

Karl sighed but his hand closed around Anders’s and he pulled him up out through the trapdoor. The dusty smell of the air was a relief after the damp of the catacombs but Anders didn’t stop to take the time and savour it. Instead, he pressed himself against Karl, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder.

“I missed you,” he mumbled as Karl’s arms encircled him. He knew how he must feel, thin man in his thin clothes, the lines of his ribs and ridge of his spine an all too noticeable map of him.

Karl didn’t say anything. He led Anders upstairs and into the bedroom they’d shared once, before everything had crumbled; it was still small and cluttered, the window covered with a thick black cloth to block out the watching moon.

“You’re a wonder, Anders,” he said, sitting on the bed and pulling Anders down next to him, “Escape the Gallows, and crawl through the dirt and tunnels to come back here.” His touch was gentle on Anders’ cheek, “I should have known it was you, the moment I heard those bells.”

Slowly, carefully, he helped Anders out of the tattered prison clothes; it was a thin imitation of their nightly routine from before the Gallows, lacking all of the little intimacies that Anders had missed. When he saw the blue bruising patterning Anders’ ribs, Karl sucked in a breath, a sharp sound. Anders couldn’t look at him. He felt breakable.

“Does it still hurt?” Karl asked, and his touch was feather light, “I can find something for you, if it does.”

“It comes and goes. Nothing’s broken.” Anders closed his fingers around Karl’s wrist, to stop his worrying, “It will heal.”

“Damn them all!” Karl said, pulling back to let Anders pull their old blankets close, “You did nothing wrong!”

“Tonight, I’ll let them think I did,” Anders said, tugging a clean shirt over his head, wincing as he did. The linen smelled of Karl and he was tired of being angry, “For now, all I want is some decent bread, a decent scrub down and a night’s sleep by your side.”

Karl’s expression softened, ready to put aside his anger at the Templars and the Kirkwall guard for one night, to give Anders what he was asking for. Anders stayed huddled on the bed as Karl busied himself with setting a pot of water to warm over the low-burning fire. He devoured the food Karl set in front of him, thickly sliced bread already halfway to stale covered with a thick layer of honey, and drowned himself in the smell of steam and Karl’s soaps. This was home. He’d wanted it back for so long; he desperately needed it to fit the way it always had.

“I missed you,” he said, as Karl settled atop him. The shirt he’d put on was soon discarded again as Karl rained kisses on him like stars, “I love you.”

“I’m here,” Karl said. His fingers were careful unlacing Anders’ trousers, his own subtle act of worship. His mouth was warm against Anders’ throat, his jaw, his lips, “I’m here.”

Anders lay awake that night, wrapped in the circle of Karl’s arms. He tucked his face into the hollow of Karl’s throat, listening to the in and out rush of the other man’s breathing. He knew Karl was awake as well by his fingers twisting in Anders’ hair.

“You can’t stay,” Karl eventually said softly, “They’ll find you. They’ll do worse than lock you up.”

Anders curled his fingers around a clump of Karl’s shirt, “I know.”

“Where will you go?”

“Not so far that I can’t come back to you. And it won’t be for long; Elthina can’t have much life left in her.”

Karl’s laugh was choked, “You don’t know? Elthina’s already dead, replaced by someone younger. Someone worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Petrice doesn’t just sit on her hands.” Karl shifted, “They say she was behind that shakeup of the guards.”

“Shakeup of the guards?”

“She had the only elven guardsman expelled from the city and reorganised the rest. Replaced the guard captain with a Templar; guards and Templars may as well be the same now.” Karl pulled away and sat up. Through the dark, Anders could see he had his face in his hands, “The city’s a mess, Anders.”

“Then maybe I won’t come back,” Anders said and he moved so that his head was on Karl’s lap, “I’ll leave, I’ll find somewhere. And then you can come to me. Somewhere safe.”

Karl didn’t say anything. His hands tangled in Anders’s hair, left loose for the night, and his fingers were rough against the back of Anders’s neck; his nails, bitten down short, were rougher still. Eventually, his breathing slowed and levelled out as he fell asleep, wrapped around Anders like a wall, protective and containing and strong enough to keep the whole world at bay.

 

* * *

 

The morning dawned slow and dripping, with the sun grey and limping over the city. With it, came a messenger, confirming news that made Meredith’s teeth grind: someone had wriggled their way out of the Gallows, a prison she took pride in being inescapable.

“Bring me Cullen,” she said, barely glancing at Elsa, “Tell him I want a full report.”

She barely noticed as Elsa dipped into a brief curtsy before leaving the room. Her fingers were tight and white knuckled on her cutlery and her breakfast was growing cold in front of her. She hoped that Cullen had said his morning prayers already for he would need all the help that the Maker could give if it came about that the prisoner had escaped on _his_ watch.

‘ _No,’_ she thought, ‘ _This can be controlled. Contained.’_

“There’s been an escape,” she said when Cullen entered her office, stiff backed and anxious, “Who?”

“His name’s Anders,” Cullen said, “I don’t even know what he was charged with. He was a healer.”

“The charges don’t matter. What matters is that he got out.” Meredith turned, “The Gallows are meant to be inescapable. He’ll be brought back here and charged. Do you understand, captain?”

“Clearly, commander.” Cullen hesitated, “I’ve heard…rumours.” He saw Meredith’s expression, her cocked eyebrow, hint of curiosity in her eyes, “People have been seeing a white-haired elf; only far from here at first but he’s been seen coming closer.”

“He’d be foolish to come back,” Meredith said, “Focus on getting that lost prisoner back; we’ll make an example of him. I’ll see to having someone investigate these rumours.”

Cullen lowered his head in a quick bow before he went back down the corridor, his boots echoing off the walls, already calling for his men. Meredith’s appetite was long gone, deserted her to make room for the thoughts ticking over in her head. She abandoned her breakfast for Elsa to take care of and followed Cullen down the hall. Where he would have turned right to go down to the Templar barracks, she went to the right, up a narrow twisting set of stairs and to the revered mother’s tower. The walls here were the same smooth stone as the rest of the Chantry; unlike the quarters reserved for the Templars, the white stone of the tower was covered by rich tapestries, threaded through with what Meredith had been told was real gold.

Before, when it was Elthina’s tower and Elthina’s office, Meredith would have paused at the door and knocked. Now, the only warning she gave to the office’s occupant is the lifting of the latch, the creak in the hinges that didn’t go away, no matter how much it was tended to. Petrice sat behind the desk and sunlight streaming from the window behind her turned her pale blonde hair into a halo.

“Knight-commander,” she said, not bothering to look up from her desk, “Are you coming to me with news about our escaped rat?”

“No.” Meredith took note of Petrice’s irritated huff. She knew how much Petrice longed for the same deference Meredith had shown her predecessor, “My elven guardsman has been seen on Kirkwall’s borders. You know that means your rogue priest won’t be far behind.”

“No,” Petrice said, and her whole posture had gone stiff and uncertain. She set down her pen, “He won’t be.”

A breeze through the window stirred the three dark quills Petrice kept on her desk; Meredith had never seen her use them. Petrice glared at the feathers as if she wanted to ignite them, one hand tapping out a frustrated beat on the hard wood of her desk.

“He’ll travel by night,” she said quietly, “Only at night. And there will be a wolf.” She nodded, the smallest movement, “A white wolf.”

Meredith raised an eyebrow. In the privacy of her office, it was unusual for Petrice to be so oblique, “You want me to find him?”

Petrice nodded again and picked up her pen, a wordless dismissal. Meredith left her and the tower, shuffling her men around in her head as she returned to her own quarters. The search for the escaped prisoner, she decided, she would take over herself. She’d have Cullen take a handful of his best out into the surrounding countryside; if he came across the Gallows rat, all the better, but first and foremost he would have hunting to do.


	2. Chapter 2

‘ _I miss Karl,’_ Anders thought, miserable, ‘ _I miss Karl, I miss our bed, I miss a roof over my head.’_ His eyes were fixed on his feet, picking his way along the stony road that wound through the mountain valley, ‘ _I miss feet that don’t ache.’_

He’d left Karl just before sunrise, carrying with him only his surgeon’s bag and a clean shirt, stuffed into a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A handful of coins lay muffled at the bottom, a remnant of a time he’d had savings. He didn’t know where he was going; he and Karl had never owned maps of the Marches, having no plans to leave Kirkwall once they’d arrived. Now the sun was at its highest point and his aim was the plume of smoke he’d spotted in the distance, a sign of civilisation after hours of slipping through dappled woods.

In another world or another lifetime, it could have been idyllic, with Karl at his side and a future on the horizon.

He entered the village quietly, emerging from the woods, self-consciously combing a hand through his hair. If he was dishevelled, no one in the village commented. As he turned onto the road running through the centre of the village, he spotted the Templar horses, tied at a low trough outside of an inn’s stable. His stomach twisted itself up in nerves when he heard raised voices, one he recognised from his time in the Gallows. A falcon spun overhead, flustered shadow against the sky, calling out to someone or something Anders couldn’t see. He wanted to turn his back, carry on past this village in the hopes that there would be no Templars at the next one and he could find food there, but the falcon caught his attention and held it. He remembered Pounce, how the cat had hissed and arched his back and bolted for help when the Templars came, and sighed before going to investigate.

Cautiously, Anders approached, slinking by the wall like an oversized cat. He froze when he saw the Templars in the courtyard but they had their backs turned to him; instead, their focus was on the only other figure in the courtyard. He was smaller than them, and cloaked like Anders was, though his hood was down to show a head of gleaming white hair. The falcon dipped and circled around him, as if it wanted to land, but he didn’t offer his arm.

“You were warned to stay away,” one of the Templars was saying, one hand on the pommel of her sword; the other, she held aloft, one finger raised, “Knight-Commander Meredith only allows one warning.”

“I haven’t come to Kirkwall,” the smaller figure said, and Anders almost wanted to laugh; as if Templars cared about technicalities, “I’ll be on my way.”

It was then that the falcon’s wheeling flight came too close to the second Templar and he reached to strike it, missing by a hair’s breadth. This alone was enough to infuriate the third man, who reached for the sword strapped across his back; when he moved, Anders could see that his ears were long and pointed. The sword swung in a graceful arc and Anders flinched back when it collided with the Templar’s blade. The Templar pushed him back and turned to see Anders stood frozen; even at a distance, Anders could see recognition blooming on his face.

‘ _Run,’_ his brain said, ‘ _This isn’t your fight.’_

He didn’t have time to move before the elf slammed into the Templar’s back, knocking him off balance, before swivelling to face the woman. The man broke away to move towards Anders, faster than Anders anticipated, and he had to twist to avoid being tugged against the Templar’s body, memories of his arrest flashing through his mind. The Templar’s grip on his arm was tight and Anders sucked in a deep breath before pulling himself in closer to the Templar, slamming his forehead against the Templar’s nose, grateful that these two had decided to forgo their helmets. The grip loosened and Anders yanked himself free, gauntlet tearing his sleeve, and he could already feel that it would bruise. He turned tail and bolted, not looking back, regretting that he’d thought to look at all. The falcon followed, shadow sweeping over him.

He made it to the outskirts of the village before he heard the hoof beats behind him and had only a few ragged breaths to dream up his apologies to Karl, whole litany of words to spill on the ground at Karl’s feet, halfway to penance for dashing their last slim chance of a life together against the rocks. He refused to think about what awaited him at the Gallows…

The horse quickly caught up to him and the rider reached down to grasp a handful of Anders’ cloak, his tunic, and hauled him up. Anders felt his heart leap into his throat before he managed to catch a glimpse of white hair as he was thrown over the front of the saddle, like the pelt of some incredibly undignified animal. He clung to the elf’s knee and closed his eyes to keep from looking at the ground rushing away beneath the horse.

‘ _I’m sorry, Karl,’_ he thought, ‘ _One day, I’ll learn to stay out of trouble, for your sake more than mine.’_

 

* * *

 

The elf stopped the horse at the edge of the woods, waiting for Anders to slowly slide off the animal’s withers before dismounting himself. He knotted the horse’s reins atop its neck and let it wander back the way it came before turning to the treeline.

“Should you really just leave it?” Anders asked, jogging to catch up as the elf slipped into the woods. The falcon followed, darting up into the canopy. The elf shrugged.

“They’re trained to find their way back,” he said and he quickly zeroed in on a hollow tree, pulling clumps of moss aside. They came away easily and he pulled out something long and narrow, wrapped in oil cloth, along with a thick leather glove.

Anders watched him, toying with the tear in his sleeve, “I know you.” The elf looked at him over his shoulder, “You were a guard.”

“Not for a while,” the elf said, “If you know me as anything, it should be my name. Fenris.”

He sat on a raised tree root and lifted one hand, beckoning the falcon down to join him; it glided down to land on the glove and, this close, Anders could see that its eyes were a bright, clear blue.

“So you said you’re not going to Kirkwall,” Anders said, “Where were you going?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to Kirkwall. I only said I hadn’t _come_ to Kirkwall.”

“Well, if Kirkwall’s where you’re headed, this is where I have to leave you. I’ve just come from there and I don’t have plans to go back.”

“Wait,” Fenris said as Anders turned away, “Those Templars knew you. What did you do?”

“I escaped the Gallows,” Anders said, prickling, remembering this elf had once been a guard, “Where I was imprisoned for doing _nothing_ wrong.” He paused, “Well, I’ve done something now. You made me complicit in stealing a horse!”

Fenris smiled, “If you’re clever, they’ll never find you. But first you’ll need to prove you’re clever.” He made a sound at the back of his throat and looked up through the leaves; the sunlight had turned thick and golden as the sun edged towards the horizon. “I need you to help me into the city.”

“I just told you I’m not going back!”

“If you could get out without being seen, I can get in the same way. I need you to show me.” With the falcon still balanced on one hand, Fenris fished in the tree behind him and pulled out a leather bag that looked far fuller than Anders’, “I know someone who would be able to get you away from this place; he’d have someone take you from outside the city, to anywhere you want in the world.”

Anders hesitated, considering it as Fenris stood, cast the falcon back into the air. He noticed how the elf’s gaze kept flitting to watch the progress of the sun. He knew he couldn’t go back the way he’d come, or continue walking the road he’d been walking; after the fuss in the village, he knew the Templars would be patrolling that road, looking for both him and Fenris.

“All right,” he said, and Fenris lifted; even his ears seemed to pick up, “I’ll do it. But before you go and do whatever it is you want in Kirkwall, I need you to get someone out to me. That’s what I want in return.” He waited for Fenris’s nod, “His name is Karl Thekla. He lives in Darktown.”

“I’ll find him. I’ll bring him to you.” Fenris shouldered the bag, “But we need to move.” He gestured to the falcon and it darted between the trees, “The sun is going down; we’ll need shelter.”

He made his way through the forest like he was a part of it, slipping between the trunks like a shadow, only occasionally stopping to make sure that Anders was still following. It was the falcon that Anders followed more than Fenris, always the halfway point between the two. Even in the quickly darkening woods, Anders could see the bright blue of its eyes. He wanted to call to Fenris, to ask where the falcon had come from, but the elf has vanished up ahead, blending into the lengthening shadows.  

It seemed, to Anders, that he was running from more than just the Templars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up: while I'm aiming for a once a month update schedule, this is going to be a little disrupted for a little while because I have another fic project for a different fandom that has a deadline, which means I'll have to put that one first for a little bit. So if it goes quiet here for a while, it's not abandonment! Just a shuffling of priorities :)


	3. Chapter 3

Shelter came in the form of the tiny stable attached to a lonely hunting lodge. Fenris took one look at the lodge itself, with its lock and sturdy walls, and then cast a mournful glance at the falcon before settling on the stable. He worked quickly, unrolling a large oil sheet and tying it across the top half of a stall door, blocking out the thick, honey-gold remains of the sun. Anders kept watch, both of Fenris and the surrounding trees, falcon perched uneasily on his arm.

“I don’t really get on with birds,” he said, and the falcon turned its hooded head, “No offence. I’m just a cat person.”

Fenris emerged from the stable and he was more on edge than he had been through the rest of the afternoon. He approached Anders cautiously, his eyes dark, though he didn’t move to take the falcon back; he only stroked the barred chest, the dark wings, before removing the hood to reveal those bright blue eyes again.

“Keep him out of trouble,” he said, and Anders wasn’t sure if it was him or the bird being addressed, “I’ll be back later.” He withdrew his hand slowly, “If you’re awake when I return, be careful; I don’t enjoy the night.”

“We just arrived and you’re already leaving me,” Anders said. He wanted to push the bird back on to Fenris, “With _this?”_

“You can put him down,” Fenris said, “In there. He can take care of himself.”

With that, he vanished back into the trees, leaving Anders alone with a falcon that shifted its weight uneasily on his hand. He retreated back into the stable and unlaced the jesses from the falcon’s legs, cautious of those wicked talons, but the bird sat quietly until he eased it onto the stall door.

“Your master said I can leave you alone,” he said, and the falcon clicked its beak. Anders pointed up, “I’ll be up there.”

He climbed the wooden ladder up into the hay loft, his lack of sleep and hours of travel finally catching up to him.  He settled himself underneath a square window, roughly cut into the wooden wall, and curled up under his cloak with his head pillowed on his satchel.

He was asleep before the last dregs of the sun slipped below the horizon.

 

* * *

 

Anders had always thrived in the night. His clinic had been busiest in the night hours, filling up with work injuries and aftermaths of drunken fights and children who always seemed sick; his courtship with Karl had been done by moonlight, stolen moments in the quiet and the dark. He lingered near the stable and lodge, digging through the overgrown garden for edible plants, feeling like his stomach was crawling up his throat. He kept Fenris’s sword close, always within arm’s reach.

“Get me into the city,” he muttered, dropping his voice to a poor imitation of Fenris, “I’ll abandon you in the forest with my useless pet bird.” He rocked back on his heels, cast his gaze up at the heavens, “Why is it always me?”

The Maker, forever benevolently ignorant, didn’t answer. Anders stood, one hand clutching his pitiful bounty, Fenris’s sword trailing from the other. He was about ready to return to the stable, to turn in and wait for Fenris to return before venturing further for more substantial food, when he heard the door to the lodge. He crept around to see no one there, though the door was hanging open, the heavy lock discarded on the ground. Nervousness bubbled in his stomach and he fell back to his old trick of creeping through shadows, lifting the sword closer, his only defence against whatever lurked in the dark.

He wasn’t expecting the wolf.

It emerged from the dark, a hulking white beast, with long jaws and searching eyes. Anders stumbled over the threshold of the stable and ducked inside as the animal lowered its head, clutching the sword. He fumbled trying to pull the blade from its sheath, unused to sword, unsure how to handle it. Outside, he heard the wolf growl.

Before he could pull the sword free, a hand fell on his shoulder. Anders bit down a shout of surprise and turned when the hand pulled on him; his eyes met blue, even in this darkness, and the man who touched him pressed a finger to his own mouth.

“Quiet,” he said, and even one word was heavy with brogue, “You’ll only get his attention.”

The stranger moved past Anders, towards the entrance and the lingering wolf. Anders reached out to grab the stranger’s sleeve but he pulled away; it was then that Anders noticed the bow strapped to the stranger’s back, the gleaming dagger at his belt.

“Wait,” Anders said, “Don’t…”

The rest of the sentence died on his tongue when he saw the stranger kneeling before the wolf, fingers kneading the thick fur, the animal’s head pressed against his chest. There was a growl as the wolf noticed Anders again.

“We’re acquainted,” the stranger said. He straightened up and stepped out of the stable, tapping his hip to keep the wolf’s attention, beckoning for it to follow. He glanced back at Anders, “Imagine you’re dreaming and you should forget me by morning.”

Anders slumped down against the wall of the stable, his meagre meal forgotten.

“How,” he said, “did I end up here?”

Outside, the stranger laughed into the dark.

 

* * *

 

The next time Anders woke, it was to the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat. There was a pain in his neck from how he’d been sleeping, awkwardly propped against the wall of the stable. Slowly, he shuffled out of the building and into the pale morning.

Fenris crouched beside a campfire, falcon balanced on one hand as he fed it scraps of pale pink meat; two rabbits roasted over the flames. Anders stared, wondering whether it was worth it to demand answers about where Fenris had gone the night before when it seemed he’d brought breakfast.

“I thought you might not have eaten,” Fenris said, with no attempt at explaining where he’d gone.

“Is this your way of apologising for disappearing?” Anders asked, folding his arms, “Because leaving me alone in the forest isn’t what I call teamwork.”

Fenris peered at him, “What happened last night?”

“Well, there was a wolf that decided to drop in,” Anders said, “And a stranger.” He thought of the bow and dagger, “An _armed_ stranger. I don’t know where he came from or where he went. I didn’t recognise his accent.”

“He spoke to you?” Fenris seemed to brighten, “What did he say?”

“Not much. He told me to be quiet, then said some nonsense about being acquainted with a wild animal.” Anders shrugged, accepted the food Fenris offered, “It was his eyes that were interesting. I’ve never seen someone with eyes that blue before.”

“He didn’t tell you his name?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity.” Fenris doused the fire with water from the flask he carried, “If we meet him along the way, I’d like to call him by name.”

He untied the jesses that held the falcon secure on his wrist and watched as it took off, his expression inscrutable. After a moment, he sighed and set to slicing strips of meat from the second rabbit, wrapping them in a scrap of cloth that he tucked into his pack. He showed no interest in eating anything himself.

“We have to go,” he said, “I want to be in Kirkwall as soon as possible.”

“Why the rush?” Anders asked, “Why do you need to get back to a place where people seem very eager to kill you?”

“I have business in the city.”

Fenris gestured to the falcon to follow and it obeyed, weaving between the trees with ease. Anders was struck by its behaviour; birds had never been something he’d known much about but he’d never expected one to obey as well as a trained hound and he’d only seen falcons above open ground, never in such a close forest.

The warning call came as the pair of them approached the edge of the treeline. Fenris froze, his spine rigid, as the call went quiet; he rushed forward when it started again, staccato sound of it breaking the peace of the forest. He burst through the trees, quick as a star, with Anders on his heels. Anders skidded to a stop when he saw the gleaming armour, four sets of it, a single crossbow raised to aim. He saw Fenris already reaching for his sword and then the falcon, fluttering shield against the mid-morning sun, as the bolt flew.

When it struck, Fenris’s cry was raw and angry and impossibly aching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said my once-a-month schedule would have a blip this month but...I felt bad not moving this forward for an entire month. So, an update, still technically late so I technically wasn't lying:)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry that this chapter is late; things happened and I wanted to put it up a couple of days ago but it just wasn't ready.
> 
> But it's here now! I'll try and stay to my once-a-month update schedule from now on!

As a rule, Anders was not a man of action. He could fight and defend himself but he preferred to hang back, to be the one who patched up wounds instead of suffer them. He’d fought when he was younger and always regretted it; he’d fought when the Templars had come for him, the door of his clinic splintering, and had ended up nursing his own injuries in a cold cell.

There were, however, times he had to charge in and this was one of those times.

He snatched up a pennant that one of the Templars had been carrying, using the pole to block a swinging sword. The pole held and he yanked the pennant free before jabbing the end of the pole against the Templar’s side, aiming the pointed end into a gap in the Templar’s armour. The Templar wheezed and he slumped to the ground. Anders left him to go to Fenris’s aid, slamming the makeshift staff into one of the Templars who had Fenris cornered. The falcon cried out and Fenris rallied, slamming the pommel of his sword into the Templar’s nose. It left just one, between the two of them; she looked at her two fallen comrades, stepping back and away from Anders and Fenris. Fenris’s anger seemed to blaze. The last standing Templar made the decision to run, dragging her still living comrade along behind her.

“Smart girl,” Anders said, feeling suddenly full of himself. He turned to Fenris but the elf was already gone from his side.

Fenris crouched down beside the falcon and lifted it from the ground, as gently as he would an infant. Anders approached him slowly but Fenris barely seemed to notice. He rocked back, so he was sitting rather than kneeling, his fingers running up the arrow shaft through the falcon’s wing.

“It’s all right,” he said softly, “You’ll be fine.” He turned to look at Anders, “You said you were a healer.”

Anders frowned, “Not for animals.”

Fenris stood, looking around to get his bearings; watching his face, Anders could see that he recognised where they were. Cradling the falcon in one arm, he looked towards the horizon, using his free hand to measure the sun’s distance from it.

“Follow this road,” he said, pointing, “until you come to a country estate; it will have a crest over the door, with two eagles. There’ll be a woman there named Hawke. She’ll let you stay.”

Anders thought he recognised the name, “Friend of yours?”

“She was.” Fenris looked down at the falcon, “Take him.”

“I told you I don’t treat animals.”

“He just needs to be somewhere safe.” Fenris’s ears dipped, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to.”

Anders looked down at the falcon. The crossbow bolt stood cruelly upright and there was a sticky, crimson stain across the bird’s barred chest. His hand hovered the bolt as the bird stared up at him with those too big, too blue eyes.

“How far away is this estate?” he asked.

“A couple of hours on foot.”

Anders opened his satchel and drew out a bandage, “It might help stop the bleeding.”

Fenris shifted his hold on the falcon so that the bird’s good wing was tucked up against his chest. His face creased when Anders carefully took hold of the injured wing and extended it; the bird cried out in protest but Anders ignored it. He’d heard enough complaints from patients over the years to be mostly desensitised. Carefully, he wrapped the bandage around the wound, being gentle around the bolt itself.

“And where will you go?” Anders asked, letting Fenris arrange the falcon in his arms. Fenris turned his head in the direction the Templars had fled. His expression was steely.

“I’m going hunting.”

He took off before Anders could question him more. The falcon snapped its beak and Anders looked down, lightly stoked the feathered throat. The eyes were still so unnerving.

“You know,” he said, setting off in the direction Fenris had pointed, “in Lowtown, they wouldn’t hesitate to eat you. I had a patient bring me a hawk once. They’d trapped it and plucked it for me. Payment for bringing their baby into the world. That was the first night I was able to give Karl a proper meal.” The falcon snapped at him. “As if I’d eat you; if I did, I feel like the elf would eat _me.”_

He followed the road with a constant prickling at the back of his neck, fearing being watched, being followed. The falcon, for the most part, was quiet; it squalled when he accidentally pressed it too hard and, he suspected, when it wanted Fenris to come.

“Patience,” he said, after those long hours, the country house coming in to view, “This Hawke will be able to help you.”

The sun was low in the sky by the time Anders arrived at the place Fenris had described. It was smaller than he thought, more a large house than a manor, and the grounds were only a garden. It was all overgrown. In the middle, he spied a woman, obviously tall, with silvery-blonde hair bundled up at the nape of her neck. The falcon made a sound in his arms and she turned.

“No!” she cried, “Away! Can’t a woman live out the remainder of her exile in peace?” Coming closer, she spotted the falcon, “Don’t try and butter me up with gifts either.”

Anders frowned, “I was told to bring this bird here, to someone called Hawke. It belongs to an elf called Fenris.”

The woman looked at the falcon and recognition appeared in her face, lighting up those green eyes. She pulled back the bandages to look at the injury to the falcon’s wing and made a soft sound at the back of her throat.

“Bring him in,” she said, gesturing for Anders to follow, “I’ll admit, I don’t know why Fenris said to come here; we didn’t part on good terms.”

The inside of the manor was dark but better kept than Anders would have expected after seeing the outside. The woman, Hawke, led Anders through the house and into a tidy bedroom. He hovered in the doorway, falcon still tucked against his chest.

“Put him here,” Hawke said, gesturing to the bed as she lit the candles in the brazier, “We have a few hours until sunset.” She peered out of the window, “Where is Fenris?”

“I don’t know,” Anders said, setting his bag at the foot of the bed, “He didn’t say where he’d be going.”

“He’ll be along.” Hawke considered the falcon on the bed and her hand hovered over it, as if wanting to stroke the bird’s chest, but she hesitated, “How long until sunset?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Ah.” Hawke looked at the bolt, “That gives me some time to get a poultice together.”

“For the bird? It’s done for, surely.”

“Don’t say that!” Even Hawke seemed taken aback by the venom in her tone. She sighed and leant against the bedpost, “I don’t need that on my conscience too.” She looked him up and down, “What is it you actually do? You don’t look like a soldier.”

“I’m not. I’m a healer.”

“Oh, perfect!” Hawke lit up. She moved to retrieve a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and laid it out beside the falcon. Cautiously, she ran her fingers down the feathers of its good wing before looking at Anders, “Come on. We have work to do.”

 

* * *

 

After sunset, Hawke sent Anders back up into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of warm paste and bandages to be made into a poultice. With the sun below the horizon, she’d become resistant to the idea of even looking into the bedroom, coming up with excuses to avoid going there.

He swung the door open and immediately had to dodge something small and hard that was flung at his head. It hit the doorframe hard before falling to the ground, landing with a thump on the thin rug; looking down, Anders could see it was a small candlestick.

“Oh, it’s just you,” said a voice from the bed.

Anders immediately recognised him; it would be hard to forget those eyes, the shape of that nose. The stranger from the previous night stared back at him. He was unclothed; the blanket that Hawke had left earlier was all that covered him. There was a dark bolt in his shoulder and Anders was only spurred in to action when he moved to pull it out.

“No,” he said, setting the bowl on a nearby table, “That could make it worse.” He retrieved his bag and took out his tools, “Let me.”

The stranger stared at him suspiciously for a moment before deciding Anders could be trusted. The colour in his face drained when he saw the scalpel, the forceps. Anders had never learnt how to be reassuring.

“It hasn’t hit the bone,” he said, as if that would make anyone feel better, “So it’s not as bad as it could be.”

To the stranger’s credit, he took it well. He barely made a sound as Anders widened the wound on his shoulder; the only real sign of pain was the fact that he had an iron grip on Anders’ shirt, pulling it tight between his fingers. Carefully, Anders eased the bolt free and quickly applied the poultice, pulling the bandages tight.

“You brought me here, didn’t you?” the stranger said, frowning, trying to remember.

“I brought a _falcon_ here.”

The stranger’s laugh was strained, “Ah. So he still hasn’t told you.”

“There’s a lot people aren’t telling me,” Anders said. He heard the door open, and turned to see Hawke cringing away, “A _lot_ people aren’t telling me. But I suspect that you’re about to tell that you are the falcon.”

“Would you be surprised if I was?”

“No,” Anders said, looking at those blue eyes, “I wouldn’t be. Not much surprises me anymore.”

The stranger smiled, amused, “That wasn’t the impression I got last night.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Anders asked, “And what are you?”

“My name’s Sebastian Vael. I used to be a prince, and then a priest. Now I’m a peregrine.” A pause and the stranger, Sebastian, managed a strained smile, “Some of the time.”

“You’re coping well.”

“I’ve had two years to get used to it.” A wolf’s howl sounded from outside and Sebastian immediately moved, as if about to go to the window, leaning on his injured arm. Almost instantly, he flinched and looked at Anders, “I didn’t get _your_ name.”

“Anders. And I wouldn’t get up if I were you.” Anders took a step back, “Not just because you’re injured but because Fenris didn’t leave you any clothes.”

Sebastian’s cheeks reddened and he pulled back, lightly touching the bandages covering his shoulder. He frowned and Anders could almost see his thoughts ticking over, trying to remember. Outside, the wolf howled again, calling with no answer. Eventually, Sebastian took a deep breath and curled in on himself.

“How did this happen?”

“There was a Templar,” Anders said, and he hoped that Sebastian didn’t bother asking exactly why the Templars could be after him; it wasn’t a story he wanted to tell to someone who’d once been part of the Chantry, “You don’t remember that?”

“There’s a lot I don’t remember.” Sebastian’s face was open and mournful, “From now and before. There are times I think I’m starting to forget Fenris.”

That was something Anders could understand. When he’d first been arrested, during those long initial days, he’d held on to his memory of Karl like a treasure, a lucky charm to keep his chin up. It was only when the days turned into weeks and then into months that he’d started forgetting. Details slipped away like water: the colour of Karl’s eyes; the sound of his voice; the way he shifted when he was dreaming. Rediscovering Karl’s face had been one of his driving motivators behind crawling out of the damned place.

Before he could say anything, Sebastian turned his face away, a clear sign that he didn’t want to carry on the conversation. Anders gathered up his tools, keeping the scalpel and forceps separate to clean them.

“I’ll come back to change the dressing,” he said and he didn’t wait for Sebastian’s response before leaving the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Downstairs, he found Hawke in front of the fireplace; she was sat on the worn rug, a sword gleaming in her lap, whetstone in hand. At some point, she’d let her hair down and it hung around her face like a curtain, lit gold by the fire. There was a bottle beside her that looked to be half empty. Based on how her head nodded, Anders could easily guess the contents. She twitched when he entered and watched him with heavy green eyes. She was a sorry sight.

“So he’ll live then?” she said, and her words tripped over each other, “And you doubted yourself.”

Anders huffed, crouching beside the bucket of hot water that Hawke had prepared earlier, scrubbing Sebastian’s blood from his tools, “You shouldn’t handle weapons when you’re drunk.”

“Hm, it’s like a part of my hand. I’m fine.”

Anders wrapped his kit back up and set it aside, along with his cloak, before settling down alongside Hawke by the fire. She offered the bottle but he shook his head. She only shrugged in response and took a swig, ignoring Anders’ grimace.

“How did they meet?” Anders asked, watching the flames, “How does someone like Fenris come across someone like _him?”_

“Life…has not been kind to Fenris,” Hawke said, “Maybe Sebastian was the Maker’s way of apologising for that.” She snorted then, as if she couldn’t believe she’d said it, “Or it was my fault. You’re going to hear that a lot.”

“I won’t judge.”

“Very generous.” Hawke paused, searching for the right words, “Fenris and I used to run together. That was before I got this.” She gestured to the room around her, “We’d crack a few skulls, get some coins to rub together.” She chuckled, “And we were damn good at it too.”

“And where does Sebastian figure into this?”

“I picked him up along the way.” Hawke’s face was fond, “And he picked up Fenris. But clergy aren’t supposed to have relationships, so it was all very hush-hush.”

She stopped to take another drink and one hand tangled up in her hair. She was an open book and regret was written in every line of her.

“But secrets don’t last long in Kirkwall and they were found out. They got out of the city before Meredith could catch them but no one can outrun curses. Fenris probably has more to say about that,” she said, “During the day, Sebastian’s is the falcon you brought here today, while at night, Fenris is…”

As if on cue, the wolf outside howled again, closer this time. Anders heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above and then the sound of a window clattering open. He moved to stand but Hawke caught his elbow.

“He won’t go anywhere,” she said, “They just haven’t been apart in two years. Not physically, anyway.”

Slowly, Anders settled on the carpet beside her again. The mention of Meredith, of the idea of her hand behind this curse, made him worry over Karl; he could only look at the fact that he hadn’t sprouted fur or feathers as a good sign.

“It’s not all bad news,” Hawke said. Anders realised that she’d taken his expression and thought it was concern for Fenris or Sebastian, “I haven’t spent all my time here feeling sorry for myself. I think I’ve found a solution.” She smiled then, soft and relieved, “Not to sound like Sebastian but you two turning up on my doorstep might just be what the Maker wanted.”

“We won’t be staying long. Fenris is going back to Kirkwall.”

Hawke paled, “Why?”

“He hasn’t said.” Anders shrugged, “Presumably to put his sword through Meredith, if she’s to blame for this.”

“He can’t! He does that and he’ll condemn them both!”

Anders wanted to ask why she cared so much. It was clear that whatever she and Fenris had had before was gone now; she’d said as much herself and he hadn’t turned to her until he’d had to. She’d been avoiding Sebastian since sundown, leaving him entirely to Anders. He thought back to the regret he’d seen in her before.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he said. He kept his voice level, empty of judgement in the face of how shattered she was, “Or you just blame yourself; you think this happened because of something _you_ said.”

Hawke looked at him with sad eyes, offering up an apology for past hurts, as if he was one of the victims. Outside, alone in the dark, a wolf howled and howled and howled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly a month since the last update; that is so satisfying. Can I keep that pattern going? Only time will tell

Sebastian was up and about before the dawn came. Anders was woken by footsteps on the floorboards and stirred to see Sebastian lingering near the door, still wrapped in the blanket despite the fact that Hawke had managed to chase up something for him to wear. There was a spot of dark red on his shoulder and Anders was immediately fully awake, reaching for his bag.

“Let me—” he started, but Sebastian shook his head.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, “Someone’s here.”

He opened the door a fraction, allowing in a shaft of dim lantern light. Standing at his side, Anders could hear the voices from downstairs, both of them faint. One of them was definitely Hawke, making a valiant effort to sound sober; the other, Anders couldn’t place. If Sebastian’s expression, tense and worried, was anything to go by he certainly recognised the second voice. He crept out of the room to crouch at the top of the stairs, listening in the dark.

“…wanted to warn you,” the unfamiliar voice was saying, “There’ll be Templars crawling all over by tomorrow. They would have come if I didn’t.”

Hawke scoffed, “And why would Templars come _here?_ I’ve done nothing wrong for at least two years now.”

“They’re hunting Fenris, Hawke. Fenris and some prisoner who wormed his way out of the Gallows. If they’re going to look anywhere specific, it’s going to be _here_ , with you.”

Even in the dark, Anders could make out Sebastian’s puzzled expression. The other man reached to touch his injured shoulder, flinching away from the damp patch in the linen shirt. It was obvious he had questions.

“The guard-captain,” he said softly as Anders approached. He turned his head slightly, so that Anders caught the edge of his gaze, “Who are you really?”

Anders took a step back into the bedroom; the dark had become more of a shelter than he was comfortable with. He was thankfully spared from any more questions as Sebastian’s attention was pulled back by the conversation going on downstairs.

“Fenris isn’t here, Aveline,” Hawke said, “We didn’t end on good terms; he would never come here.”

“Then you won’t mind if I search.” There as a long pause before Aveline spoke again, “Hawke, if you’re not telling the truth--”

“I am. Fenris isn’t here.”

Footsteps approached the stairs and Sebastian stood quickly, turning to look at Anders. The hall around them was starting to turn grey with the first light of dawn.

“Hide,” he said, though he made no move to do the same. Anders ducked behind the heavy door, hidden from view but still able to listen.

The footsteps seemed to thunder as they came up the stairs, loud enough that Anders could focus on them instead of Hawke’s chatter. They stopped suddenly and Anders knew that the guard-captain, Aveline, had come face to face with Sebastian even before Sebastian said anything.

“Aveline,” he said, cautious and measured, “It’s been a while.”

“Sebastian.” Aveline’s reply was stiff, “You’re…alone.”

Anders watched the three of them through the crack between the door and the frame. Sebastian was facing down a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of the trunk of an oak tree, sturdy and unbreakable. The red of her hair was unmistakeable, even in the poor light from the candle Hawke carried. Hawke herself still lingered on the stairs, eyes flicking between Sebastian and the bedroom.

“Fenris and I can’t be together all the time,” Sebastian said as Hawke slunk from behind Aveline to stand beside him, “Hawke’s telling the truth. He isn’t here.”

“And this prisoner?”

“I don’t know any prisoner.” Sebastian caught hold of Aveline’s arm when she moved to go past him, to look into the other rooms on the landing, “Would you really turn him in? He’s done nothing to deserve this and you know it.”

“Sebastian--”

“He was one of your guards, your _friend_. By the grace of the Maker he could be again.”

“The Maker’s grace won’t keep Meredith off Hawke’s back.” Aveline’s boots thumped past the room, “Whatever is in there, you have five minutes to get it out.”

Anders didn’t move until Hawke appeared around the door. She looked exhausted; her eyes were rimmed with red and shadowed and her expression was drawn. Sebastian stalked past her to return to the bed, slowly moving to take off the bandages around his shoulder. Anders stepped towards him, wanting to examine the injury again, but Hawke’s hand stopped him. She pushed him towards the window.

“Out that way,” she said, “You’re skinny enough to fit through. Aveline won’t check the walls.”

Five minutes wasn’t enough time to argue, though Anders was hardly happy about the idea. He pushed the window open and clambered up on to the narrow sill, balancing precariously as he searched for somewhere to put his feet. He could make out the shape of a ledge and, slowly, eased himself out of the window. His feet hit stone and he kept himself pressed against the wall. He clung on to the ivy that clambered up the wall, made sturdy by years of being allowed to grow. Although it was still dark, he steadfastly refused to look down. Looking out towards the east, he could see the edge of the sky starting to lighten.

‘ _Perfect timing,’_ he thought, irritated. In the room behind him, he could hear voices; in the tangled garden below, something rustled the leaves. He could only hope it wasn’t a damn Templar and, if it was, that they wouldn’t bother to look up.

He didn’t move until he felt a hand on his shoulder, more forceful than he’d expected. He pitched forward out of instinct and the hand tightened, pulling him back. When he looked up, he saw Sebastian half hanging out of the window; although he held Anders back, Sebastian’s attention was on the horizon. Anders used his hold as an anchor so he could turn around and used the vine as leverage to reach the window, trusting that Sebastian wouldn’t bring him back in just to hand him over to the guard-captain.

“You shouldn’t be doing with that,” he said as he climbed back into the room, “Not with that shoulder.”

“I’ll be fine. Sunrise isn’t far off.”

“All the more reason not to be doing something stupid!”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Instead, he undid strings fastening the shirt at his throat and pulled the fabric away from his shoulder. He’d already unravelled the bandages and washed away what remained of the poultice; the wound was healed, with only a fresh red scar indicating that it had ever been there at all. Anders reached to touch it but quickly withdrew his hand.

“I didn’t realise I was that good,” he said, and he almost missed Sebastian’s half-smile.

“I almost wish it was you,” Sebastian said, “Sadly, it’s just another of my symptoms.”

“Not all bad then.”

“If you want it, take it. I’d take any wound if it meant I could live a normal life again.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Anders asked. He wanted to; despite the wound looking healed, he wanted to make sure there’d be no further injury.

“No,” Sebastian said, a little too quickly. He settled by the window and tried again, “Thank you but no. You’ve done enough.”

Once again, Sebastian turned away from him, ending the conversation on his terms. It was becoming very obvious to Anders that this was someone who had been born with people listening to his signals, when even a gesture felt like an order. It seemed not even Chantry life and two years on the run was enough to shake a habit like that. He wasn’t in the mood to push or press it. If Sebastian wanted to watch the sun come up on his own, Anders wasn’t going to force himself in. He took himself downstairs instead, knowing it was pointless trying to get anymore sleep.

Hawke’s house was full of scattered bits of memory. There was a greatsword against the wall of the dining room; it clearly hadn’t been used in a long time but was lovingly cared for, gleaming in the low light. The manor had the feel of a thoroughly noble estate, albeit one gone to seed, but the hangings in the windows were all hand embroidered. The sheets on the bed had been the same, patterns of lavender and vines carefully set in the linen. On the dresser, while Sebastian had been sleeping, Anders had spotted what looked like a family crest in miniature intended to be set on a belt, like a knight’s token from a story.

He found Hawke sitting on a stone bench in her overgrown garden. She offered an apologetic smile as he approached.

“Sorry about before,” she said, “about Aveline. She always did have a habit of calling in without warning.”

“We’ll be gone soon,” Anders said, “I don’t want you in trouble for the sake of us.”

“Stay a while,” she said, “At least until Fenris arrives. I want to try and talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“Sorry, for one. And to give him some hope. I think I might know how to end his curse.”

 

* * *

 

It was mid-morning by the time Fenris showed his face. He looked dishevelled and the night smell clung to him despite the bright sun. He halted when he saw Anders with Sebastian on his arm, feeding the falcon scraps from Hawke’s breakfast table. He only stepped forward when Sebastian noticed him, though Sebastian made no move to go to him. Despite what had been said last night, Anders had a feeling that the arrow wound hadn’t completely healed before sunrise and it was still causing pain.

“Thank you,” Fenris said when he approached, his gloved fingers light against Sebastian’s feathers, “For this.”

“He didn’t really need me. You didn’t tell me about the healing factor.”

“Because I didn’t know.”

Fenris stretched out the injured wing, looking apologetic as Sebastian made a sound of protest. Letting go, he shifted his grip on the bow, wrapped again in oil skin, so that it was balanced against his shoulder. Sebastian took the hint and moved to perch on the end, wobbling slightly as he found his balance.

“We should go,” Fenris said once Sebastian settled, “There’s still a lot of ground between us and Kirkwall.”

He turned and almost walked into Hawke, stepping back to avoid his nose brushing against her armoured chest. Anders expected his face to darken with a scowl but his expression remained mostly calm.

“I thought you might have moved on,” he said, “Or been killed.” He reached up with his free hand to scratch the falcon’s chest, “It was optimism, sending him here. Thank you for taking him.”

“I’m glad you did,” Hawke said, “And it’s _me_ who should be saying thank you.” Fenris raised an eyebrow, “For coming back. It’s a chance for me to make up for my mistake and for you to have a normal life again.”

Fenris took a long, measured breath, “Hawke, you have let me down once before.”

“Not this time, Fenris. I promise. I’ve looked into it.” Hawke produced a rumpled sheet of paper from a pocket on her belt. She unfolded it to reveal an astronomy chart, “Your curse can be broken when night and day are one and the same. In three days, that will happen! If you and Sebastian can be in the Chantry that day, facing Petrice down during her Mass, you can live a normal life again.”

“Petrice cannot—”

“Place curses? So she can’t possibly be part of the solution. Tell me, Fenris, did killing Danarius make anything better?” Hawke said and Fenris flinched. Danarius was a name Anders hadn’t heard before but, based on Fenris’s reaction, it was a low blow. Hawke made no apology, “It might have come from him but it didn’t _start_ with him.”

Sebastian shifted his weight on his makeshift perch and Anders looked between Hawke and Fenris, noting the tension across Fenris’s shoulders and how Hawke’s confident stance faltered slightly under his gaze.

“We’re going back to Kirkwall anyway,” he said, “You could at least try.”

“I have one chance at justice.”

“And one chance at being free.”

“What about Sebastian?” Hawke said, softening her tone as Fenris stepped away from both of them, “What about _his_ choice? He goes where you go, after all.”

“Did you ask him last night?” Fenris asked as Sebastian inched his way down the bow. He barely inclined his head as the falcon settled closer to his shoulder, talons digging into leather wrapped over the oil skin, warm feathers pressed close to his ear.

“It wasn’t exactly a good time.”

“And you were drunk,” Anders interjected. Hawke shot him a glare, “It’s true.”

“Then ask him,” Fenris said and, for a moment, Anders thought he was going to coax the falcon back on to his wrist, to hold Sebastian out for a genuine conversation as a bird, “Tonight. But no matter what he says, I will be in Kirkwall.” Gently, he stroked the falcon’s throat, letting his gauntlet do the scratching for him, “With or without you.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Meredith received the report that the elf and the prisoner had gotten away, that her Templars had been bested by one elf and someone with no martial training from the bottom of Kirkwall’s barrel, she’d wanted to skin someone. Lacking the pelt that she wanted, she instead turned her attention to Aveline Vallen, former guard-captain and a woman with very little to lose.

Aveline stood stiffly in front of the desk as Meredith read the report she’d composed. If she was at all put off by the way Meredith’s brow creased, the way her mouth set into a hard line, she didn’t show it.

“There was nothing in Hawke’s estate?” Meredith said, “No sign of him at all?”

“No sign. Hawke was drunk but there was no elf and no prisoner,” Aveline said and her tone was stiff, “if you’ve been told they were there, it was after I left.”

Meredith didn’t offer a response. She hadn’t been told otherwise; the Templars she’d sent to Hawke’s country estate had said there was no sign of either fugitive, though they’d reported that Hawke was gone as well. While it was part of a Templar’s job to believe in miracles, Meredith was not a woman who trusted in coincidences. Hawke being on the move when one of her old associates, one of her old flames if Kirkwall gossip was to be believed, had been seen in the area was suspect. They were together; they had to be.

And Meredith had a very good idea of where they were headed.

“If Hawke comes back to this city,” she said, “I want her brought here. Under arrest, if need be, but my face will be the first one she sees in Kirkwall.”

“I can’t arrest her with no charges.”

“Suspicion of aiding a fugitive,” Meredith said, “But if she has nothing to hide, it shouldn’t be an issue. Now go, if you have nothing useful to tell me.”

Aveline’s face was grim but she offered no argument. Meredith waited until the guard’s footsteps were faded before she closed the door to her office and rifled through her records, carefully filed, before pulling out the arrest record for the Gallows’ lost mouse. She scanned it quickly, smile tugging the corner of her mouth, before filing it away again.

It had been a while since her last outing into Darktown.

“Elsa,” she said, and Elsa stood a little straighter, “Bring me Ser Alrik and two of his best knights. There’s a clinic we need to visit.”

 

* * *

 

In Darktown, the entrance of Templars was always an event; in Kirkwall’s quagmire, it was impossible for gleaming armour and swords to not be a spectacle. The narrow makeshift streets are full of water, run off from the rest of the city after a night of rain. The people they passed stopped and stared, expressions a blend of fear and curiosity. Some averted their eyes, as if the haphazard market stalls were a more interesting sight than a band of armoured Templars. Meredith disregarded them all.

“I remember the last time I was here,” Ser Alrik said at her side, “It was a clinical visit then as well.”

“Considering his crime, I’d be surprised if you’d forgotten.”

Alrik’s smile was a cold thing, “I wanted to bring the partner at the same time.”

“Now is your chance.”

The clinic was tucked into a back alley, as ramshackle as almost everything else in Darktown. The doors were shut, tarred at the bottom to seal the wood against the water and the mud. There was, however, a lantern burning overhead which Meredith knew meant the clinic was open to the public.

“With us,” Meredith said to the two knights accompanying them, “If there’s a fuss, you know what to do.”

The knights took up position outside the clinic while Alrik centred himself to kick in the doors, putting all his force into it. The doors burst open, splintering, and a child on the other side screamed. Meredith strode in, taking in the surroundings. For a place to die in Darktown, it was clean and as well-lit as anything in this part of the city could be; there were about a dozen cots in two neat rows along the walls, all of them surprisingly empty except one which was occupied by a muddy faced child, his arm bound in a sling. The only sign of the Templars’ last visit could be seen on the central pillar, a deep cut in the wood from Ser Alrik’s own blade. A grey haired man emerged from the back room and took in the ruined door, the frightened patients.

“He’s not here,” he said, striding towards them, bold as anything, “You’ve searched here, you’ve searched my home. He’s not here and there’s nothing more I can tell you!”

Meredith gestured to Alrik and one of the knights, “Bring him.”

Karl Thekla didn’t stand a chance.

He raised his hands, as if to defend himself, and the knight seized his wrist and twisted. Something popped and his knees buckled, giving Alrik the opening to lock the manacles around his wrists. Behind her, Meredith heard the rapid thud of footprints on the floor as the child bolted to the backroom, hollering something Karl and Templars and Lirene, come quick!

“Bring his medicines,” Meredith said to the second knight as Alrik pulled Thekla to his feet again, “We may have need of them.”

“Karl?”

Meredith let out a slow breath and let her hand rest on her sword, thumb stroking over the pommel. A dark haired woman stood behind her, taking in the damage to the door and her healer flanked by two Templars. Her face tightened into a scowl and she ushered the child back, shutting the door so he wouldn’t see anymore.

“What charges?” she demanded, “You can’t just--”

“Lirene,” Thekla spoke before Meredith had a chance to, “I’ll be fine.” It was obvious that he didn’t believe what he was saying, the words more for the benefit of the child listening beyond the door, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Hm.” Alrik was smugly satisfied. His grip was crushing on Thekla’s arm, “So much more cooperative than the last one.”

 

* * *

 

If Karl Thekla had seemed small and powerless in the clinic, he was even more so in the Gallows. He stayed huddled in the corner of his cell, curled up on himself, keeping a watchful eye on the door where Alrik stood guard. He barely looked up when Meredith entered, though she saw the scowl, saw how his gaze flicked to the iron brand she carried.

“He doesn’t say much,” Alrik said in response to Meredith’s questioning look, “Only that he doesn’t know where the other one has gone, that he wasn’t told.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Meredith said, passing him the iron brand, “I’ve spoken with the Grand Cleric. Prepare this while I speak to him.”

“I can’t tell you anything different to what I said to him,” Thekla said once Alrik had left, “If Anders is gone, I don’t know where.”

“I know what you’ve said, I’ve read your testimonies. I’m here about your sentence.”

“My sentence?” There was fear now, barely there tremble in his voice. He shifted, as if moving to stand, “I haven’t had a trial. I haven’t even heard any charges.”

“There are charges and there was a trial, only a year ago. You don’t remember?”

“For Anders.”

“And it has been decided that, in his absence, you shall serve his sentence.” Meredith produced the authorisation, signed by Petrice, “The Grand Cleric, in her mercy, recognises that your involvement in the original crime was minimal and has commuted the sentence. You’ll spend your days serving the Chantry, until the original convict is apprehended.” She leant down, still looming over him, “If anything happens to the Grand Cleric, we’ll know it was you. And you’ll never be able to hide from us.”

She dragged him to his feet, ignoring his wince as the cuffs pulled against his injured wrist. He glared at her but he didn’t offer up any arguments about how justice should be done, about how it wasn’t fair, how he didn’t deserve this. It must be, she thought as she marched him down past the other cells to where Alrik waited, an indication of guilt.

“Perhaps we should make this standard practice, Commander,” Alrik said, still holding the brand in the furnace, “In light of recent events, of course.”

Meredith didn’t answer; she only pushed Thekla to the wooden chair waiting for him, noting how the prisoner balked when he saw the brand, when he realised what his sentence meant. She held him down as Alrik moved to restrain him, unlocking the manacles to strap his arms down. The air smelled of smoke and hot iron. Thekla’s gaze hadn’t budged from the glowing brand.

“Just get it done,” Meredith said, “And make it quick; the Grand Cleric wants him as soon as possible.”

She didn’t linger; she’d never been in the habit of staying for brandings and Alrik didn’t need her to around to do his work. The door was left hanging open as she left and she heard when Thekla finally broke, when the wailing started, calling for someone who wouldn’t answer. She hoped that word of his arrest made its way outside of the walls, that this Anders heard of it and had enough honour to come back for his partner.

She’ll hang them both when she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff has happened during my break from this fic, including checking another fic off my list, a lot of crying and handing in my four week notice at work. In other words: July. I'll try to get back on a steadier update schedule but can't promise anything, since I'll be playing in a fandom exchange and also moving across the country to start my MA in September.
> 
> So I'm sorry to you, but mostly I'm sorry to Karl.


	7. Chapter 7

All it took for Fenris to give in, to defer to what Hawke suggested, was a note from Sebastian. It was written on a slip of paper torn out of the back of one of Hawke’s books and was only a sentence long: it’s worth trying. Fenris almost hadn’t stopped looking at it, unfolding it at every opportunity, as if the shape of Sebastian’s writing alone was a treasure. With it in hand, he let Hawke decide their way, avoiding the main road back to Kirkwall, allowing her to lead them through the forest roads; he let her decide when they stopped, when they ate, where they refilled their water flasks. The only thing he didn’t allow her to have any say over was Sebastian himself, though he made no attempt to stop the falcon when he opted for Hawke’s shoulder over his own hand.

“He used to write to me,” Fenris said after Anders wondered why he was so fixated on the note, “But not for a while.”

“Did you ever write back?” Anders asked, slowing to match Fenris.

“I tried to. Perhaps that’s why he stopped.”

“What was he like? Before?”

“Patient with me.” Fenris looked at the falcon, wobbling on Hawke’s shoulder, “Faithful beyond measure. He saw something in me that I still can’t find in myself. I just hope that these past years haven’t changed him too much.”

“From what I can tell, they haven’t.”

Fenris didn’t respond. Something jumped in his neck and he looked to the sky, overcast with heavy grey clouds promising rain. His face dropped and he quickened his pace to catch up with Hawke; she drew to a stop when he touched her shoulder, knocking Sebastian’s balance, though Hawke didn’t pay attention to how he ruffled his feathers in irritation.

“Almost sunset,” he said in response to Hawke’s questioning look. He reached to take Sebastian in hand, to say his goodbye for the night.

Hawke cast a glance at the thick cloud, “How can you tell?”

“I’ve had practice.” Fenris smoothed down the feathers on Sebastian’s back, “Stay safe.”

He let Anders take his pack from him before he left them, disappearing into the trees. Anders frowned at Hawke as she took the falcon down from her shoulder; it was then he noticed her glove, much like the one Fenris kept, and wondered just how long she’d been preparing.

“Poor thing,” she said, though she made no move to stroke Sebastian like Fenris would, “Always left alone.”

“You knew that he’d go,” Anders said, accusing, “That’s why you decided to come this way.”

“Partly, yes. If he’s going to run anywhere, he stands a better chance in the woods than on the open road, or near farmers’ fields.” Hawke set off again and Anders had to jog to catch up to her, “Second, the Templars have so far tracked you along main roads. I thought Fenris was smarter than that but it makes sense, in a way; easier for them to find each other that way.”

“And what about tonight? Camp in the forest and wait for Fenris to come back?”

“There’s an inn nearby. Fenris knows it; we used to spend nights there when it was the two of us, so he’ll be able to find us again.”

“You told him?”

“He’ll follow his nose,” Hawke said. She squeezed Anders’ shoulder with her free hand, “It will be fine, Anders. By the end of this week, they’ll be back to normal. You can get back to wherever it was you were going before Fenris swept you off your feet.”

With sunset so close, Sebastian was restless, fidgety. He looked tense, as if ready to fly, but never set his mind to it; he stayed on Hawke’s arm, watching the growing gloom of the forest, looking for someone who wasn’t coming. It was impossible to tell how close nightfall was, not with the thick cloud and Fenris already gone.

“Here,” Hawke said finally, with Sebastian at his most restless, “This is the place.”

The inn was barely recognisable as one. It was a low building, built out of wood that would have been grey even in daylight. A battered sign hung in front, the only signal that it wasn’t just a lonely house, though it was too murky for Anders to see it properly. Beside the inn was another building, this one empty and clearly intended to serve as a stable. Hawke ushered him inside just as fat, heavy drops of rain started falling, finally fulfilling the promise of a downpour.

“Wait here,” Hawke said, letting Sebastian off her wrist to balance on a stable door, “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she left, Sebastian abandoned the door for the ground instead. Anders opened the bag Fenris had left with him, rooting around in the hope that this was where Fenris kept Sebastian’s clothes; he pulled out a long, dark robe, gold thread catching the lantern light. It unrolled as he pulled, and tunic and trousers fell free at the same time, along with a whole sheaf of letters. He turned when he heard the crack of bone, when the sound of a falcon started resembling a man’s; he dropped the clothing over the door before gathering up the letters and retreating as far as the building would let him. He glanced at the name, the messages, scrawled across the front of the letters while he waited _: to Fenris; sorry to have kept you waiting; I miss you._

“Anders?”

There was a rustle of fabric on straw and Anders turned to see Sebastian behind him, pulling the robe over his plain clothes; now unfolded, Anders could see it was embroidered with a Chantry sunburst, clearly some holdover from when Sebastian had served, a relic from before Fenris. He glanced around the barn before going to peer out of the door, careless about the rain.

“He agreed then?” he said, ducking back inside, “This place is only a few hours from Kirkwall; Hawke used to come here so she didn’t walk into the city looking completely exhausted.” He leant against one of the posts, looking intolerably handsome, “If the Maker’s kind, tomorrow will bring an end.”

“Back to how you used to be,” Anders said. He held out the letters, “No need for these anymore.” Sebastian took them, handled them like they were fragile, “I didn’t go through them.”

“I doubt Fenris read them,” Sebastian said, “He’d have more things on his mind than reading practice.”

A whistle cut through the sound of the rain and, despite his apparent forgiveness of Hawke, Sebastian’s mouth twisted. He put the letters back into the pack he shared with Fenris and picked up the bow, slipping it over one shoulder. He pulled the hood of his robe up over his head and stepped into the rain. Anders quickly followed, cringing as the rainwater leaked into his boots. Hawke stood waiting for them in the doorway, holding the door as rain swept into the entryway.

“Turn left and then…” she started, but Sebastian passed her by without a word, already heading down the hall, “...first door on the right.” She watched him disappear, one hip cocked, “I guess he remembers. You want to join him or stay with me while I settle payment?”

Anders declined. He followed Sebastian, finding him sat on the straw mattress, hood now thrown back, hunched over his letters. The bow lay next to him, but he made no move to attend to it. His attention was focussed wholly on the sheet in front of him, the edge soft against his fingers.

“Things won’t go back to the way they were,” he said, though he didn’t look up, not even when Anders shut the door, “I don’t think they could; it’s all sour now.”

“If it’s because it all happened in Kirkwall, you don’t need to stay there.” Anders leans against the wall, “As soon as I can, I’ll be taking Karl away. Somewhere kinder. If you ask nicely, I’ll bet Fenris would do the same for you.”

“He tried. Then this curse caught up to us.” Sebastian picked up the letter, “We had a day, if that.”

“Was it at least a good day?”

Sebastian hesitated before he smiled, “Looking back, it was a glorious day. We’d both spent so long doing what others wanted or expected, it was almost exciting.” He shifted his focus from the letter to Anders, “Aveline mentioned Fenris is travelling with an escaped prisoner. Unless there’s someone I haven’t seen yet, I’m right in thinking that’s you?”

Anders nodded. This was a conversation he’d known was coming, but he was hesitant to divulge details of his sentence to a man who’d been sworn to the Chantry, no matter his current circumstances. Sebastian watched him, sizing him up as a falcon would. Before he could ask anything, the door swung open, Hawke framed in the doorway.

“Well, he hasn’t changed,” she said, shutting the door behind her and dumping her pack on the floor, stopping only to pull out her chart and her map, “Ask to borrow some shears and he tries to charge extra.”

“Shears?” Sebastian asked, Anders’ criminal past set aside, “What for?”

Hawke looked at Anders, “You don’t have to do it, but I think it would be a good idea for you to have a haircut. It’s not much, but it might just cut down the chances of a Templar recognises you.”

Anders untied the string holding his hair back and raked it back away from his face. He couldn’t remember the last time it had been cut with any care for how it looked after: with Karl, he’d only cut it when it became inconvenient to his work, tying it back to disguise how ragged the cut had been; in prison, it had been cut when the guards deemed it necessary, a process which involved more manhandling than it warranted.

“Not too short,” he said, letting Hawke push him down into a rickety chair, “I want something left over.”

He sat rigid when Hawke took the shears to his hair. She was gentler than the guards, gentler even than Karl; she didn’t pull and even hesitated when he flinched away as the blades came too close to his ear. Behind them, he could hear Sebastian humming, quiet but recognisable as one of the canticles.

“I’m thinking,” Hawke said, “that we split up on the approach to Kirkwall. I go in alone, through the main roads so people aren’t suspicious when there’s suddenly life in my city estate. I’ll show on the map, so you know where to find me.”

She stepped away to retrieve the map and Anders took the time to run his hands against his hair, feeling out the new length of it. The tips of his ears felt too exposed and the back of his neck itched where loose hair stuck to his skin, to the collar of his shirt. Hawke stood up with her map, stretching it out on the bed beside Sebastian, but before she could say anything, there were voices beyond the door.

“...sorry to disturb you at this hour but another wolf has been spotted and you did--”

“Ask to be told, I remember.” There was the sound of a sword, “There’s enough traps laid; it will stumble into one and I’ll find it to finish it off. The Grand Cleric wants pelts, not the whole animal.”

“Oh shit,” Hawke whispered. The edges of the map crumpled between her fingers, “That’s the knight-captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was meant to have something else in it but it was causing me a lot of hassle so I've decided to split events in two. Part of that was caused by my need to torment my audience with slight cliff hangers.
> 
> And I know I said that I would try and get back on a regular update schedule but I will be taking another break from working on this fic. The reasons for that are many and I won't go into detail, otherwise this note will be longer than the chapter itself. I will say that I am in a near constant state of emotional crisis which then impacts on how I feel about this fic and I can see that starting to affect the work itself. I will be working on other stuff and possibly posting other stuff, depending on what gets done, so I'm not going anywhere! I'm just not in the right headspace for this particular project right now ;_;


End file.
